Attn: Scott Johnston--better be on your shit. Watch your q's and be on your p's, my friend; as you can clearly see, I kill it at shoe design. Picking up the gauntlet thrown down by Watson, I threw together a Koston 1 select Hot Lava colorway in about three minutes using some markers and a silver crayon. Along the way, I decided to forego paying homage to the red and black Nike Air Tech Challenge II in favor of the blue and orange; although, come to think of it, a white shoe with a black sole and a big red "E" would be Nineties as fuck.
A couple notes on the design: the silver heel collar (?!) would be constructed of that mesh stuff, and the lava on the heel goes all the way around to the other side.
While I was hard at work, I pondered why the fuck I am so psyched on this colorway; the nostalgic forces that surround it are powerful. The kids that wore Air Tech Challenge II's and Bo Jacksons were always just a little ahead of the curve when it came to important shit like seeing naked ladies. For example, they always had the SI swimsuit issue whenever it hit the stands around mid-February. It's hard to verbalize the gravitas the release of the swimsuit issue commanded at that time. Keep in mind that, at the time, the internet was used primarily for academic types to communicate with each other. Consequently, it was virtually impossible to see [mostly] naked ladies unless one had some kind of hookup like Cinemax or an older brother. Presumably, the swimsuit issue was intended to raise the spirits of demoralized dudes in the deadest dead of winter, in the negative zone between the Superbowl and the NBA All-Star Game. So opiate-like was their siren-like power, the young ladies therein became H-list celebs, after a fashion.
They also inspired a cult of sorts, depicted and immortalized by Michael Rapaport's character in Beautiful Girls. Note: although I am not psyched on "The Hundreds," if they re-reissued the shirt featuring this famous monologue I would definitely fuck with it.
*note: Brooklyn Projects is not actually located in Brooklyn.
**note 2: The Fountains of Wayne no longer live in Wayne.
alternate post title: Javier Nunez can land a fucking guitar.
Has Tampa supplanted California as the locus of the American Dream? I postulated this theory after the harmonic convergence of the final ep. of Eastbound and Down and the Tampa pro finals. Like many dudes that weekend, Kenny Fucking Powers rode off into the sunset headed for Tampa, leaving a "gaping hole of need" of a woman at a suburban North Carolina gas station. The mission: one last shot at redemption. [insert Active Erica / April Buchanan commentary here] The location: Tampa Pro, which year after year provides entertainment value, of late centering less and less around the contest itself, with its increasingly cynical winning runs by that dude with the triple-collab hat. Alas, in 2009, a Matt Beach moral victory was not to be. However, I could not have been more proud of Mr. Nunez, who reprised his guest spot in Stevie's part in the DC video to the tune of 3K and a Dean (Darrell Abbott's final guitar sponsor) Flying V-type guitar. Throwing in that "wheedle-wheedle" George Lynch shred action was rad too. Note to Mr. Nunez: if you are indeed left-handed,and intend on learning the instrument, i highly recommend learning to play the guitar right-handed. It just gives one so many more options, you know? Plus, I know for a fact ESP does not manufacture a left-handed George Lynch pro model. However, I can think of at least one left-handed dude that took advantage of the symmetry of the Flying V design: Back to Mr. Nunez. My congratulatory sentiments are somewhat conflicted; as everyone knows, it's not very menace tech to try in contests. Years past, dudes might have flung a couple fakie inside heel attempts on the flat bank before blowing per diems at Mons Venus. Not this year, though. Maybe Javier is starting to actualize his potential, fourteen fucking years after getting on Menace. As it is, he's already one of the premier nollie h/f dudes ever--up there with Charles Lamb. I have no idea what it is, but that particular part of the world produces the best switch heel dudes par excellence. Maybe the catalyst is some chemical compound in the Arthur Kill that wafts over to Bayonne, back over to SI and then down to the Raritan Bay where it infects Wenning and Durante, or some shit like that.
Now, If I were Bill Simmons I would compose some elaborate 20,000 word extravanza relating Powerisms to shit that went down at Tampa, but I'm not. So, all you get is a cheap story from the Nineties. And it goes a little something like this: I once ran into Kareem, Javier, and Cales at the pizzeria down the block from Supreme. Kareem related that his master plan for Javier was "the next Guy Mariano." I'm not sure if dudes who have been dubbed assuch have fared as poorly as dudes who have been dubbed "the next Michael Jordan." Maybe worse.
As for Nunez' board sponsor, it's by all accounts "sick,"but their existence reminds me of that episode in Season 2 of The Wire in which Stringer Bell askshis econ professor how to make a profit in an oversaturated market. His answer, in a nutshell? Change the name. The theory postulates that the juice created by the "newness" of a new brand alone will increase sales.
And if you think about it, in a market as oversaturated as "hardgoods," every time a new brand appears there's that one group of kids that are all about it--Deca, Deathwish, whatever. I am unsure, however, that this particular phenomenon took place for Shut. I have yet to see one of their boards anywhere. I suspect that they are one of those operations that is "big in Japan." Their graphics are legit, but the team lacks cohesiveness and identity to a certain extent.Felix doesn't help (see recent youwillsoon post). Derek Fukahara blew doors with one of the most talked-about tricks (varial heel ng on a handrail) in one of the most memorable parts in one underrated videos (Filmbot Files) of the past decade, then vanished. Back to the actual Shut product-- I think they utilize Chapman wood, making that manufacturer and its various clientele, specifically Zoo and Cliche, the only boards my local shop carries that are manufactured in our fine republic. And the last time I had a Chapman/Number 9 board in my posession, I traded it for a green 101 shirt and Whatever, including the box. This was possibly the most one-sided trade in the history of product trading. I found this out the other day when I went to get a board, and it came down to a limited-edition Tex Gibson guest board and a Dill. Note: realized that I just mentioned Dill. I'm not trying to fight you, bro; I fucking purchased your pro model! If you insist on fisticuffs, though, I'm at the foundation spot almost every weekend.I could never actually skate any kind of signed and/or numbered deck, so the Dill it was. I was surprised to see, however, the following counter-litigation (NOTE: there has never been a successful skateboard liability suit in this country -- I did a rudimentary LexisNexis search) device: Bummer, because up until then, one of the main things Burton Skateboards had going for it was the Paul Shmidt connect. I wouldn't be suprised if they were still availing themselves of his services, or phasing them out, or a combination of the two. Who the fuck knows, man. All I know is that if I ever gripped a board and forgot to remove the "warning" (or in the case of crailtap products, size) sticker, I would die of obsessive compulsion alone.
My friend refuses to watch any British videos, such as the much-lauded Blueprint video Lost and Found. "Too dreary," he laments, and indeed, especially in Paul Shier's part, the Bob James music, cobblestone sidewalks, and bleak skies only exacerbate one's seasonal depression. And, like my therapist said, "depression is not attractive."
The flipside to that coin is that videos can function as an escape from Old Man Winter, who smacked me and the collective East Coast in the mouth this week . I believe it was in that sketchy early Nineties magazine Warp that Miki Vuckovich or some dude wrote that videos are like those cartoons with the coyote and the roadrunner --someone somewhere you wish you could be, doing something you wish you could do.
Skating is the one of the few vocation that provides its professionals with the impunity to do just that--to move anywhere in the world to do their thing. Think about it--not even NBA dudes have that capability. As long as you keep pumping out footage, shit's cool. Curiously, only a select few have taken advantage of this--Kalis comes to mind first, having set up shop just about everywhere except LA, and Dill perhaps, and Appleyard, who has transformed into more of an all-terrain destroying world traveller. That's cool and all, but I'm referring to setting up shop in an entirely new city; you know, renting/purchasing a residence, buying furniture, that kind of shit. Where would you go? Barca is an obvious choice. In a career-defining move, Lee Smith plugged into the rejuvenation machine by moving over there. It's like when Kobe's dad went to play in Italy. These dudes probably look at a Henry Sanches like Mick, Kieth, and Brian Jones perceived Muddy Waters or one of those fucks--a master that got fucked by the system. Also, why more people haven't moved to Prague mystifies me. Granted, the weather may blow, but Stalin, situated on the top of a hill overlooking the city, with smooth ground, ledges, that manual thing, looks like Love's crazy European cousin (see any footage of Petr "Euro Wenning" Horvat). Come to think of it, I haven't seen any footage of it for a minute, so it might be blown out. In any event, Prague itself, based on secondhand accounts, Harsh Euro Barge, Beware the Flare, and most of all, the INXS "Never Tear Us Apart" video, seems imbued with a magical vibe of sorts...
Enter Euro. While Euro videos ,particularly those from England, and Germany, display some of the bleakest, easter-bloc terrains around, some contain mindblowingly beautiful scenery. You know how some videos use "crusty spots" as a selling point? I am of the opposite persuasion -- the more pristine and affluent the spot, the more I am into it. I came to this conclusion while, on a late-night quest for OnDemand entertainment, I discovered the Alis video Who Cares. Remember that Monte Carlo tour feature in that one On Video (the Love Park "issue"? Kevin Long, Pete Eldrige and them skate all these ridiculously ornate hotel ledges and stairs and shit? That is my favorite "tour" article of all time. I mean, hardflipping down a set of stairs at some nondescript Southern California school is one thing, but hardflipping down a pristine alabaster double set that leads onto a pier that extends seemingly infinitely into the cerulean Aegean Sea (as in Willow's part in the aforementioned Alis video) is quite another, in terms of, yes, theater of the mind.
Enter Spain.
For a time, I considered seeking employment at this place. A different, more laid-back way of life, including siestas, people who value art, and all those seemingly mindblowing spots. Then I concluded that I would still have to get car insurance, fuck with the cable company and gas company, finagle with real estate fucks, and handle all the mundane shit one deals with on a daily basis that doesn't really pass over one's mind when fakie ollie switch crooked grinding a ledge alongside a beach filled with topless women. There is no escape from the everyday dealing-with-people shit. However, regardless of locale or employment status, skating has a strange power. Like Guy said in the FF doc, in the moment when one is actually doing a trick, all that shit fades away, whether one is fakie ollie switch crooked grinding a ledge alongside a beach filled with topless women or "Pupecki" grinding the local high-arrest-potential marble bench.
The former, of course, is the lifestyle potrayed in your average Euro video, like the newer offerings from Alai and Nomad. In stark contrast to the minions of Burton that pounce six minutes after someone uploads Dyrdeks park onto youtube, these fine companies seem to just want you to see their fucking video-- any way, anyhow. TAKE OUR VIDEO, PLEASE!
The Nomad video is mostly notable for b/s 180 fakie 5/0 specialist Raul Navarro and Jose "poor man's Jesus Fernandez" De La Rosa. Enter Alai, another Spanish board manufacturer. Again, in stark contrast to the directives of executive producer Jake Burton, they offer the video for anyone who wants to watch it on the very front page of their site. Go there--or simply click below--to watch the most effective example of the different, better way of life to which I previously alluded: Daniel Lebron's opening part in Alaikit, my favorite video part of 2008.
Once one gets past the somewhat annoying intro, one navigates into a world where skating isn't a stunt or recreational activity. It is art. As opposed to the U.S., where skating is relegated to municipally converted, caged-in tennis courts, middle-of-nowhere abandoned foundations, or deserted, undercover-of-the-night corporate edifices, Lebron's four-minute part paints a picture of a highly advanced society where skating coexists with other art forms, such as cooking, sculpture, the visual arts, and seducing a woman.
Furthermore, the sheer Nineties-ness of Lebron's attack appeals to my narcissism because, like, that's how I would skate if I could. Who the fuck else locks into and pops out of switch heelflip frontside crooked grinds like that, or could, even? Capaldi, perhaps Rodriguez. It's as if there was a fork in the road around 2000-2001 and he kept going one way and everyone else went the other. While doing so, he elevated fakie ollie switch crooked grinds to an art form--maybe even a new religion. I know that the industry is far from a meritocracy, but dammit, I guestimate that there are twelve NBD's in this part. Not Aaron Kyro NBD, but legit fakie ollie switch crooked grind variations never before done by a human being. I believe that also takes into account Sarmiento's guest appearance. Both of these dudes' baffling underratedness is perhaps a topic for another post. In any event, SPRING FUCKING BREAK is right around the corner. Cozumel? Maybe not this year...
coming soon... According to the 'Tap today, a Guy EL is in the can, or at least in the works. Although I don't believe in expectations, life-changer potential remains high. Therefore, depending on how long the other thing I'm working on takes to complete, I will hold off on the aforementioned Guy-related project until O'Dell releases the shit. Thanks, bro...
"Tex [Winter], who is definitely no Buddhist, has a saying that I've grown to love: 'You are only a success at the moment that you do a successful act.' You can't be a success the next moment because you have already moved onto someays told my players the glorification comes from the journey, not the outcome." -Phil Jackson, from The Last Season
See that? That's people waiting in line for our collab. There's not that many because we didn't hype it. We just dropped it, kind of like Hokus Pokus, 411 #2, or the first Girl ad. But anyway, pilot light approached me about doing a point/counterpoint a couple months ago and I was like "let's do this." It took a while, though, most of which was carving out chunks of time to watch as much ON Video as I could find. Shockingly, my local shop still had one in stock, and Unicron still has a few as well, so who knows. But, that was my process--watch all the "behind the music"-type ON video segments (I didn't fuck with any of the other segments, for reasons delineated below) and take notes.
And as you might have inferred if you read this site regularly, I am a big fan of process over product. I also obsess over pop culture minutae. Remember that show Behind the Music? Seen every one up until (yes, and including) Matchbox 20. Specifically, I think I have seen the Ratt episode seven or eight times. Ever seen one of those "classic albums" shows on VH1 Classic, with some graybeard describing the laborious process by which he multitracked the guitars on Hysteria, or some shit? I I come across it I have to watch the whole thing. Along those lines, I suppose I lapsed because I haven't seen Clyde's commentary to the World box set, nor Guy/Mike/Rick's commentary in the Girl box set. As you might have guessed, I am currently working on rationalizations--most involving my recent conclusion that my higher power was speaking to me through Guy's part--for shelling out whatever they decide to charge for the Final Flare. Although, the recent Epicly Later'd's have given us a glimpse into the process of the evans/frederico/jonze creative machine. I was also recently able to view the "making of" doc from FF, in which the autocratic lengths to which Evans went to get footage kind of blew my mind. I wonder what dudes will do when all the spots in China are blown out. By the way, do you think, if there were pro skaters in the 1930's, that they would have gone on filming expeditions to Nazi Germany if there were lots of marble ledges there, like at the Luftwaffe headquarters or whatever?
But ANYWAY, therein lies the value of ON video: insight into the process behind the epic individuals, places, and videos of our time. Like Nikki Sixx's harrowing tale of the time he mainlined Jack Daniels, without this bastardized child of 411, these stories might be lost to the sands of time forever. The credits for Video Days were done using a piece of paper? Critical. Rocco wanted to call 101 101 Dalmatians? I needed to know that. I will get further into the specific examples later on...
However, first let's examine the inconceivable thought process that gave birth to ON video. I suppose 411 was raking in so much dough that, in classic this-is-going-to-last-forever fashion, the powers that be at Giant decided to produce an adult contemporary version of 411, aimed at older dudes with more developed attention spans. Can you picture it? It's late 2000. You get home from your lucrative dot-com job, like at pets.com or something, and pop in a VHS of the new ON video, soundtracked by non-descript indie rock ("the new adult contemporary") and watch some nostalgic footage of Ed Templeton impossibling something or other interspersed between dudes slow-mo k/f boardsliding hubbas in Koston 3's and yellow shirts. It seemed like most of the montage and tour stuff was 411 throwaways; and shit, another tour feature! I'm telling you, there was a time when 411 was new and exciting. I remember going into my local shop and asking myself "411? What the hell..." and it was sick, even the video-grab box cover design was sick. Why? because, like regular videos, it was shit you couldn't see anywhere else. Back then, it was like parachuting into an average day at Santa Monica Courthouse.
BUT ANYWAY, Ironically, the years following ON videos demise saw an explosion in the skate documentary cottage industry, including, with varying results, the Gator documentary (creepy and effective...the scene where he's playing that Psychedelic Furs song in his basement on acoustic guitar still creeps me the fuck out), the Hosoi documentary (epic as fuck), the Dogtown documentary (pretty good, although I think they stole the wooden, robotic narrator dude from ON video), the EMB documentary (hopefully still a work in progress), the NYC documentary (DVD?), and the Rocco Documentary. However, Epicly Later'd is arguably the most effective antecendent, especially given it's historical-to-current outlook and especially it's division into easily consumable 6-minute segments. Like I've probably said before, EL's one major downfall is it's unrepenrant worship of it's subjects. But, what the fuck, it's Lakai, you know? I mean, come on--fuckin' Lakai!!!!
Along those lines, the most frustrating element of ON Video was that it purported to be a more mature 411 but still, in that milquetoast 411 kind of way, was terrified of mature subject matter. For example, how could one tell the story of LOVE without getting into the whole board-jacking rep, blunt-smoking, etc. This is where, particularly in the Carroll series, O'Dell ventures into transcendent life-changing territory. Back then, the "skate life" was represented as a free-for-all of money, weed, and Honda Civics. Once one gets beyond Carroll admitting to smoking crack, which I had no idea was so popular amongst Nineties dudes, the saga of how him and his brother forged a life out of the chaos of living with addiction is a much more organic representation of recovery than, say, Dr. Drew's Celebrity Sober House (which is fucking awesome in it's own right). If you didn't think Carroll wasn't the best dude ever before...
On Video, however, still holds its own in a few respects. The long format facilitated more philosophical depth than your average "Wheels of Fortune." Specifically, The "Importance of Style" piece is probably the most elucidative of them all--if I were to attempt to convey to someone--like, perhaps, a NYT reporter--what skating is like I would probably show them that. How else are you going to learn Rodney Mullen's computational system for learning tricks, which kind of reminds me of derivatives in calculus? Does that make sense? Now I know why he used the matrix theme song--it's as if he sees the binary code behind everything. And don't even get me started on how fucking awesome, in the most sincerely nerdy way possible, it is to see Kevin Bacon's dad explaining how Love Park was his thesis project from Cornell in 1932.
1932 Cornell Masters Thesis Project
It doesn't get much more nerdy than dudes in white shirts and black ties making architectural models for some gleaming, futuristic civic ideal of Philadelphia. By the way, does anyone else think it's slightly odd that Kerry Getz, after ollieing over Edmund Bacon, four years later chooses to ollie over....fuck it, I don't know where I'm going with this. In conclusion, the tsunami of video available to the average dude doomed ON Video, in addition to the consequent average attention span. I mean, unless you are a full-time skate nerd you might have already forgotten about, say, that one promo that was hyped for like a year and a half. Who knows, though; however unlikely, maybe some dudes out there might see Natas 180 sw crooked grinding in 1988 and get some kind of creative spark going. But, I doubt it. The fact that the average kid can view Tim and Henry's or Snuff with no effort it doesn't mean they will. I mean, there's a chance that an astute individual might see Gino's part in Snuff and get psyched to try something new, but I don't really get the vibe that there are a lot of kids out there that think like that. It's not their shit. It's like when I used to find all these wacked-out Seventies Miles Davis records in my dad's old collection of vinyl. I'd listen to them and maybe think to myself "oh that's cool," but I didn't really internalize it. It wasn't my shit . You can't have nostalgia for something you never experienced in the first place.
I am the biggest Nineties nostalgist you will probably ever meet. I listen to every obscure alterna-rock band from said decade like Superdrag, That Dog, and Seven Mary Three. I attended the first Texas is the Reason show (they opened for Quicksand). I used to tape Stretch and Bob every Thursday nite on a magnetic tape and listen to it on a portable magnetic cassette tape-playback device. However, one piece of Nineties nostalgia frenzy by which I was not captivated was the recent bio-pic hysteria over Notorious. It just seemed too cheeseball, not to mention the fact that, by all accounts, it should have been titles The Sean Combs Story featuring Chris Wallace, or some shit... That got me thinking: who in our crazy little world warrants a biopic? Or, rather, whose biopic could possibly be interesting? Lennie Kirk? Tom Penny? Shef? The story of S. Williams has most of the classic story elements -- rags-to-riches, a Steinbeckian cross-country journey, death, birth, half-cabs with extra tongues. He interests us because his body of work, dating back to Fine Artists, is so relentlessly transcendent, yet some of his moves, seemingly made two steps ahead like a chess grand master or some shit, seem 100% mercenary, cynical, and sometimes baffling. A recurring dichotomy, for sure. People forget that Stevie basically had to re-learn skating in the mid-Nineties. I would often see him randomly at the Cube (the epicenter of random lurking) on some "hey, can I skate your board?" shit. He would then proceed to kickflip nosemanual the whole island. I believe 5:06 was filmed under similar circumstances. Granted, it wasn't to the same higher-power extent as Guy's recent comeback, but to go from learning sw back tails and relearning heelflips to world-beating ender status in 2-3 years certainly warrants mentioning. Most recently, he opened a questionably-named shop in Atlanta across the street from the more established local shop, at perhaps the worst possible time since the Great Depression to launch a retail operation. Presumably, this move is inspired by Atlanta's current status as the nexus of some kind of post-millenial African American cultural renaissance. Positioning DGK in this context places skating in general in a different sociocultural realm than it has ever been. How this plays out, however, remains to be seen, as does the end product of any musical ventures like the Skate Property mixtape, from the same school of titling stuff as Get Tricks or Die Trying,,, Indeed, amidst the frenzy of year-end retrospection over the past six or so weeks, the one piece that was completely overlooked was the DGK loft video that was removed from the internet after two days, presumably due to haranguing and buffoonish ridicule on SLAP. In general, though, DGK affiliates (pun intended) literally setting up shop in Atlanta is one of the most interested and overlooked subplots in the whole industry, which, in general, is boring as fuck. What may have been lost on many is the self-depricating humor of S. Williams. To the undiscriminating observer, he may have appeared mesmerized by back to back Lambos, but, I mean, come on now, a fridge with half a 2L bottle of sprite and frozen biscuits made from scratch (reference to an obscure Hardee's commercial), and the quintissential empty product box. Plus the bed where Mr. Williams' neural synapses fire indiscriminately and visually. Once again, Mr. Williams is smarter than you think--metacognitively being aware of how his brain functions has enabled him to visualize and execute shit like sw heel fakie hardflip out and the line in that one Chocolate commercial. (Who has auditory dreams, anyway? Besides Keith Richards when he came up with "Satisfaction." Although, come to think of it, I used to have extremely vivid dreams in which I played guitar for Bon Jovi, and some in which I thought up these crazy Dragonforce-style power metal anthems....)
Unfortunately, based on recent entries on the DGK "blog" or whatever that may be, ATL has met DGK dudes not with open arms but with FRUSTRATION, except for the chess board spot, which yielded perhaps the most mind-numbing sequence of 2008. Taking a throaway trick from the Virtual credits and banging it out on a knee-high ledge is the kind of move one would expect in the post-FF era, but not with such classic form in such a unique setting. Unfortunately, this is the only evidence of production (video coming soon? Dwyane Fagundes?) from the DGK relocation. Also, based on the Expedition site, Stevie appears to be on the mandatory China filming trip with Kayo peeps, so hopes of a North America (yes, I would accept Van plaza footage at this point) Williams part this year remain in jeopardy. Maybe, for all the post-millenial cultural renaissance shit going on in Atlanta, perhaps other locations would prove more productive. Raleigh, NC perhaps? Isn't some kind of plaza taking shape there? Maybe even my fair city, which one could consider a slightly-economically-disadvantaged persons Atlanta-- historically African-American learning institutions and all.
ps. With regard to the current dearth of hassle-free spots in Atlanta, I noted a potential foundation spot to the Northwest of the world-famous Blue Flame: View Larger MapOne could probably scrounge up, just from digging in the couch cushions in that place, enough cash to build some decent ledges and a bank .
"I'm the hunter Searching for love on these lonely streets--again I'm the hunter Searching for the things that I might never find--again! -Don Dokken, 1985
This one kid at my work, in addition to being legit at skating, also hunts. This, to me, is awesome--in a Cardielian sense, as Phelps would attest. Both of these things comprise part of being an outdoorsman and conceptualizing onesself as a self-reliant American male. One should be able to tie a tie, change a tire, operate a grill, order wine at a restaraunt, cook eggs more than two different ways, drive stick, open a beer with a lighter or Venture truck, and grip/set up a board anywhere. In addition to serving as a metaphor for bassist Jeff Pilson's quest for meaning in an among the dive bars of LA, hunting is an effective metaphor for skating. One is outside, doing something. That's 90% of the equation. Getting away from stuff. I, myself, have never hunted, so I am unable to compare skating to taking the life of an animal. However, in both endeavors, one uses a lovingly constructed instrument of wood and metal (and plastic... are Glocks plastic? No, they 're ceramic...). And similar to like gambling, one pays for the experience; the end result, or whatever product is obtained, is secondary to the moment-to-moment process. Well, maybe product is critical if one happens to be executing a filming mission. That requires a different mindset entirely--the Ty Evans approach of skaters as team of travelling contractors, the filmer as foreman. While the Ted Nugents of the world value hunting on some primeval communicating-with-the-spirits-of-nature shit, tapping into the same parts of the brain that once drove use to drive woolly mammoths off cliffs using only a flaming stick and club bitches over the head and drag them back to one's cave by their hair, at the average foundation spot such as the one depicted above, one can feel a definite vibe of a different, creepier sort. Hundreds of people used to go there to work every day. They got hired. They got fired or quit. Supervisors compensated them for their time. They took deliveries at the loading dock. Millions of dollars changed hands, security dudes scoped out every hot girl that walked in, and now only the concrete foundation, some twisted metal, and the once-pristine marble floor, shards of which now only serve as ammunition for lurkers to hurl into the abyss of the parking lot, remain.
One cold and rainy November Sunday, there was no skating going on. Unfortunately, no one has decided to open an indoor park here for like 8 years; from what I hear, they're not exactly licenses to print money. Although, there are always kids who mention that "We're opening a warehouse, dude!" but they seem to always be super sketchy, occupying spaces like the offices and back rooms of abandoned gas stations. I don't know where they are anyway, so fuck it. I went to the shop, got the final issue of SLAP, then went to the gym. Usually when it rains I swim laps then hang out in the sauna for like fifteen minutes. Swimming makes one feel fucking awesome; I think it's the same thing as what is commonly referred to as "runner's high." Although it is parallel to running (doesn't Reese Forbes jog 5 miles every day or some shit?) in many ways, I don't think I will be winning said gentleman's "high ollie challenge" in the near future. As far as saunaing goes, I do not know if it helps one at all medicinally, but if Arto does it it must be cool, right? That dude doesn't age. I was thinking of a way to explain its benefits, and I think it's good for your joints or some shit, and while I have not, unfortunately, b/s lipslid any kinked rails lately, I really can't verbalize it any better than Arto himself did in the March 2008 Thrasher:
For the Scandanavians, the Seandos, a sauna is something very holy and kept with a high spirit in Finland, the Scando-land that it comes from. It has a long history of spirits and cleaning and meditation--all those things that people used to use a sauna for--calming down, giving birth, and just feeling epic. It's basically a small wooden room with a stove with hot rocks in it. You heat the rocks up and then throw water on it and it makes a very hot ...
To clarify, I am definitely not Scandanavian--indeed, I am a big Jew. However,the Scandinavian people did extend a helping hand to the Jewish people during WW2, so Scandanavians totally hate Jews just a little less than everyone else in the world. More importantly, "feeling epic" is, of course, what I'm all about. Just like any other social realm, however, there are rules to the sauna. You don't want to be like this "Little Carmine" type dude that always hangs in there, munching on Fritos or some shit, drinking water, pouring water over his head "to stay fuckin' hydrated," reading the Wall St. Journal--it's not a good look. Also, never bring your mp3 player or, heaven forbid, your blackberry into a sauna because it will malfunction. First, though, how did I get to this point? Why am I reading the final (print) issue of a skateboarding periodical in a sauna with a bunch of naked jewish dudes?
*** Back in the early Nineties, every Saturday I would ride my bike to the mom and pop shop and get whatever new mag or promo VHS tape was there. At this time, it was the only skate shop in town, besides 17th St., which was half-assed at best. Now there are four. Maybe five. The offspring of this mom and pop was actually one year ahead of me in middle school; we were always just a little jealous of him because he had all the freshest skate rags and shit like that. So one November I went down there and picked up SLAP #8: It was sick--in effect, a conduit to a better place with limitless horizons.One thing about SLAP--it never relinquished its earnestnest about how, like awesome and amazing skating was/is. While Big Brother was trailblazing humor, irony, and epic road trips, SLAPdocumented the physical and mental intersection between skating, art, and random layout. If anything, it veered more into to the artistic side when skating became less hip-hop oriented; that void was never filled--well, maybe by Strength...
Furthermore, the early issues, especially those few early "large" format ones, reminded me of some graf zine with the low-budget, black and white ads, and printing on which one could actually see the dots if one looked close enough. One of my favorite articles from the early years was the Pep interview that Andy Stone recorded on some obscure antiquated magnetic tape cassette format. According to the interview, when he sent it in to the mag, they had no way of transcribing it. That was it--no interview, his words lost to the sands of time. Although this was a logistical error that was never corrected, it drives home the point that absence of content can be just as effective as presence. This whole way of looking at shit has been on my mind since I recently completed watching Sopranos seasons 3-6 on the OnDemand. Once you deduce that the screen going black indicates Tony's murder, the aftermath--blood, skull fragments and brain matter in the onion rings, Meadow seeing her father's head explode--is a million times more horrific than anything the cast and crew of a television program could have staged. This, after a fashion, is the cumulative effect of the early issues of SLAP: a handful of black and white photographs can impact the psyche (3:18) more powerfully than--oh, I don't know-- some dude's "private" skatepark broadcasting a s.k.a.t.e. "tournament" amongst your favorite pros via the interweb, an idea that would have blown my mind in 1992.
ps. If you can still find one, the last SLAP is worth getting if only for the two-page spread of every single cover... pps. I started mentally formulating a circa-1992 BATB bracket, but I didn't get any further than Jovantae, Damon Byrd, Alf... ppps. Active Erica lifestyle coverage on p. 106
Look out, hypebeast! Major streetwear news here!My favorite streetwear--I mean...um, small-scale casual (?)--clothing company, Fucking Awesome, is back. First, some background: Truth be told, the last time I happened by my local small-scale casual clothing shoppe, they had this placard or sandwich board out front advertising all the brands they carry. Lo and behold, "F'ING AWESOME" was on there. So I asked the dude if they had any of their shirts or anything because, although, gun to my head, I couldn't describe for you any of their shirts besides "gangster situations," I remember them being more amusing than your average Paris album cover rip-off or what have you. Unfortunately, they did not, and we kind of knowingly shrugged, as if to say, "What are you gonna do--it's Dill. He probably just got obsessed with something else and forgot about it." Fast forward to last month, when fuckingawesome.net reappeared. The best thing about the new site is, of course, Dill's partner taking shots at the whole small-scale casual clothing "culture," portraying them as loser pieces of shit, basically. In any event, the shirt with Keith Richards, James Brown, and Artie Lange is kind of funny. Indeed, I would give my next paycheck to have been a fly on the wall at that party. Which leaves me asking myself, does anything in this world warrant waiting in line? Yeah yeah yeah, I know--voting. With regard to the whole "streetwear" thing, though, I suppose the silly thing about obsessing over clothing or shoe items is elevating them to art status. Then one gets into the "what is art?" debate.
"You know--paintings and stuff."
Dill's partner mentions also his work-in-progess--a documentary about Ozzy Osbourne. This reminded my of the last time I, myself waited in a ridiculously long line for something--A Black Sabbath in-store in 1998. In a decision that speaks volumes about my mindstate at the time, I decided it would be a good idea to hang out in front of the Virgin "Megastore" in Times Square all nite with a bunch of metal dudes from Old Bridge, NJ listening to Screaming for Vengeance (note, this was nine years before FF!) on a boom box. Although I am less all about it now than I was at the time, truth be told, I still rock out to the "stoner" metal from time to time--nothing wrong with a little Kyuss or even Monster Magnet every once in a while. However, I pretty much never listen to Sabbath anymore. The best way to explain it is that it's just in my mental DNA, like Virtual or Reign in Blood. Like what was the last time you actually listened to Slayer, you know? ANYWAY, after hanging out in Time Square all night they started the shit. Sharon was there, supervising. The one thing I remember is how deliberately Ozzy was when he signed my copy of Volume 4, like he was concentrating super hard. Indeed, his autograph is supresingly legible: But yeah, waiting in line for a super-limited article of clothing is horseshit, alright.
ps. I was going to title this post "Don't Stand In Line," but I decided that that would be too obscure an Ian MacKaye side project reference.
“we wear black...and when they invent something darker than black we’ll wear that too, dammit…”
Back in the fall of 1993, I went skating at my local school on a brisk satuday morning. Because it was brisk, I wore my semi-new Carhartt sweatshirt. At the time, I was heavily influenced by Rap City, and most of the videos on there were set in some kind of post-apocalyptic underground water treatment facility. And of course, everyone wore hoodies—either Carhartt hoodies or that one kind that promoted historically African-American learning institutions. As it happened, though the sands of time cloud my memory, I remember taking off said sweatshirt, placing it on the bench I was skating, and then going to skate somewhere else. When I returned, it was gone. Bummer. I got a new yellow sweatshirt shortly therafter.
Fifteen years later, the Carhartt brand of “streetwear” (workwear?) resurfaces as the publisher/distributor of a volume of poems by Scott Bourne—you know, the “black-arm” dude from Big Brother. Gun to my head, I couldn't tell you one trick this dude did, what videos he was in, or any of that shit. But when I'm in an assisted living community, say the words "black arm" to me and I will respond "oh, that Scott Bourne dude...". As you probably have surmised, his particular genre of skating is not in my wheelhouse. However, for whatever reason, Todd Bratrud created for him some of the best graphics ever—like this:
...and this, in particular:
The poem reads thusly:
Captains’ Log
October 30
Broken Compass
Overcast Sky
Navigate by heart
Or die
Regardless of whoever wrote it, that’s fucking awesome. ANYWAY, this publication is notable for the following reasons. First, as far as I know, it marks the first time a pro/former pro has published a work of literature No, the Hawk and Mullen "autobiographies" are not applicable. I think Vallely might have come out with something or other, but I'm not even going to attempt to unravel that enigma here. I think he might have just stuck to the spoken word performances, though.Secondly, as far I I know, this marks the first time in the modern era that a dude has gotten sponsored for writing, or some shit. Maybe calling it a collaboration between an author and a "streetwear" operation would be more apt, but I give myself secondhand embarassment just typing the word "streetwear." It is what it is, though. Who knows--maybe this will be the next level shit in publishing.*
ANYWAY, back to S.H. Bourne’s poetry. I gotta tell ya, even though I have yet to read it, several red flags appear. Any book whose primary selling point as being written on a typewriter screams “hey.! my art is authentic because it was created using outmoded technology!” I mean, why not just use a Mac SE, you know?
In addition, here’s the deal with the whole “tortured artist” point of view—every time I read or hear someone in that vein, it reminds me of the Louis C.K. bit abouthow people without kids have nothing to complain about. Take Rollins, for example: while some of his verse is compelling, a great deal of it self-indulgently complains about how much it sucks to get driven around in a tour bus and play music for a living. Let's be real here--if your job is being driven around in a tour bus--a bus, not a van--and playing music for people, you have basically won at life. I would also go so far as to say that if you have finagled a way to eek out a living skating around Europe and typing on a typewriter, you're not doing so shitty either, big picture-wise. However, if one is going to explore the “tortured white dude” subgenre, it doesn’t get much better than this excerpt from See A Grown Man Cry, Now Watch Him Die, which I just finished:
Last longer, move faster, with more clarity. I will go until my body quits. Panicked and charged with blind fury, the bull sees the gate come up and he stomps and bellows in the arena full of strangers. It was always simple combat, one against all. One never relenting, knowing no other way to go but until collapse. 1992 dies.
Now, I do not profess to be some kind of prose expert, but that's kind of badass. Judging by a few standard writing criteria--voice, imagery, figurative language, sentence variety-it kills. I contrast that with Bourne's excerpt on the "spacejunk" site, which I would have linked to had it not been recently removed. I assure you, though, there's not much to grab onto there. Of course, that was just one sample--I would need to review the entire collection before delivering a definitive review. How much is 18 Euros again? In all honesty, if someone sends me a copy I will review it in all objectivity and sincerity. I won't, in case you were wondering, critique Mr. Bourne nearly as brutally as the instructor herein:
ps. I just realized this a couple weeks ago, but you might recognize the professor from that clip as....
